


Risk To Reward

by inbox



Series: Church and State [7]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Breeding, Dirty Talk, Eavesdropping, Feminization, M/M, Mild Feminization, Overhearing Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 08:52:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15904986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: Deacon has done some colossally stupid things in his time, but this might be way, way, way up on the list. Top five easily. Top three if he narrows it down to professional engagements only, but hoooboy. Talk about a payoff.M!Sole Survivor Church/SturgesM!Sole Survivor Church/Deacon (mentioned)Deacon/Sturges





	Risk To Reward

Deacon has done some colossally stupid things in his time, but this might be way, way, _way_ up on the list. Top five easily. Top three if he narrows it down to professional engagements only.

There's ballsy, then there's breaking into your mark’s house in broad daylight ballsy. Breaking in to his house _while he’s inside_ tier ballsy.

It's stupid as fuck. It's going surprisingly well.

Look, he's no rank amateur. He's done his homework and got an A for his effort. He knows the latch on the rear bedroom window can be jimmied loose, and the reason Deacon knows that is because he broke it himself last month and waited to see if anyone would notice it and fix it. The pane slides along smooth as butter with no groans or squeaks, ‘cause he oiled the grooves after sweeping them free of dirt and leaves. Then he did the rest of the house to cover his tracks, ‘cause nothing hides interference better than blatantly overdoing it. Church assumed his stay at home boyfriend fixed the squeaky windows, the big slab of beef assumed Church did it. Easy.

Then there's the dog, and frankly that was the easiest part of his set-up. Beef jerky and time convinces even the most attentive guard dog that it's totally normal for him to be skulking around the back yard and doing light home renovations under the cover of darkness or, more accurately, under the shimmer of a stealth boy. Besides, the few percentage points of sedative pilled into the chewy meat are extra insurance. Not enough to knock the dog out, but enough to make him sleepy. It's a beautiful warm sunny day, right? Totally normal on a day like this for the big Shepard to doze in the sun and lazily snap at flies instead of, well, snapping at Deacon’s fly.

In and out, easy as pie. The back room is Church’s office-cum-mausoleum, with an overstuffed library shelf and narrow desk on the wall by the door. Says a whole lot about the guy that he's set himself up in a way that keeps his back to the scattering of detritus from his old home - his old life - piled on the far end of the room, cleaned up and put together in a way that says there's a slim possibility he might find some semblance of his old status quo one day, but left to gather dust in a way that loudly advertises that Church believes that no, he probably won't.  

If it was anyone else Deacon would feel sorry for them. What a hand to be dealt in this new, messy world: truly alone and lost in time, hanging on to memories and dwindling hope. Church, though? Deacon just feels vaguely sorry for him, at a level that gives him just enough cover to maintain his status as a well-rounded individual. Any empathy he might've genuinely felt for the guy got burned out for good when Church gave intel that led to that synth refuge up north getting razed by a Brotherhood strike team. Total bloodbath by reports. No survivors, total wipeout.

Ergo, fuck Church. As fun as he might've been for a one night stand underneath the infield lights, there's officially SFA else about him worth a passing fond thought. B+ for dick sucking, F- for everything else. See me after class, or better yet: don't.

 _Don't get stuck in the past, beautiful._ Deacon takes a deep breath and wills himself to relax, to loosen up from his toes to his nose, and empty his mind of anything except this current exciting bout of breaking and entering. Stay focused, stay frosty. He takes one last look around the backyard and cautiously eases the window back an inch.

Nothing. No shouts, no barks.

He opens the window a foot and waits, then opens it wide enough for him to get through without knocking a knee or elbow. Deacon ducks behind the wall and waits, ears straining for any sign that he's been made.

A radio in a far room. Kitchen maybe. A rhythmic thump, sounds like…? Someone laughing much closer. Make that two voices much closer. Deacon closes his eyes and takes a silent breath, in through his mouth and out through his nose. One hand rests on the bandolier of stealth boys at his chest, ready to flick and bolt the moment one of those voices gets too close to the window.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

A geological age later he's ready to lean back around the window and get his bearings. After all, he figures, if anyone was going to blow his head off they were being uncharacteristically patient about it.

Time to shit or get out of the kitchen.

He takes one last count of his stealth boys. Four Railroad specials tuned unobtrusively silent, putting out 56 seconds per unit after applying his own (officially unapproved, officially untested) overclocked modifications. 3.7 minutes in and out. It's a comically long time with padding to spare on a simple snatch’n’sprint, but these days he's a big advocate of being over-over prepared.

Silently, cautiously, he leans back ‘round the window frame far enough to get a bead on the room, the open door and the hallway beyond it.

The door on the far side of the hallway is open. Filtered afternoon sunlight fills the three feet of room that he can see. Bedsheets, his internal catalogue supplies. Main bedroom, windows on two sides, privacy secured by bedsheet curtains on the windows. Okay. Good. The rear room is dim in shadow at this time of the day, and the sun is blazing in the garden. If Church spots him and Deacon has fucked up badly enough that his stealth field is down, the shithead ain't gonna see his pretty face right away.  

A loud bark of laughter rings out clear as a bell. A creak, then… fabric? Something rustling. A mumbled word or two. Thump, thump, thump. Then, impossible to miss, Church clearly groaning _fuck_ like the word has been punched out of him.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Deacon turns pink around the ears.

Oh. Well then. He'd been banking on Church being on the far end of the house, distracted by old sports tapes or tending to the disassembled robot neatly laid out on a drop cloth in the open garage, but hey! This works too. Nothing distracts a guy quite like having his upholstery rearranged at three in the afternoon, even if the location du jour is uncomfortably close to where Deacon plans on stealing at least one Brotherhood code book, a recently updated deployment schedule and whatever other intel he finds that's light, portable and valuable.

“Knees up,” says a familiar voice, one that Deacon has heard saying all kinds of extremely good ideas about knees and the placement thereof into his own ear on at least three occasions. “Don't you go sliding away from me.”

Jesus. At this point he really should pay Sturges a finders fee, ‘cause lord, him ‘n his junk have been unintentionally useful on multiple occasions now. First for intel, then for gossip, and now as the ultimate distraction device.

 

> _Dear Des,  
>  Please issue that well stacked man a backdated pay stub for his impeccable dick and it's repeated unintentional service to and for the Railroad._  
>  _With regards, etc etc etc._

He counts down in his head, bouncing on his toes to the rhythm set by Sturges plowing his boyfriend, and takes the window in three silent moves. At, up and over. He drops to the musty carpet with a quiet involuntary grunt and freezes, waiting for any sign that they've heard him.

“--been way too long, sweetheart,” says Sturges. “One more day without this ‘n I'd have nut sloshing ‘round my back teeth.”

Deacon makes a face. _Fella, jesus. Have some decorum. Some of us have to listen to this and it ain't that appealing if you're not on the receiving end._ He eases a hand to the activation switch of his first stealth boy and marks his first mental countdown. 56 seconds on the clock, and _go_.

He finds what he's looking for within moments. Church might have some tactical strengths, unfortunate as they might be for anyone not on Team Blimp, but security isn't one of them. Deacon already cleared him out of a cryptographic slide and a cypher book not five months prior, now the dumb fucker has left a coded deployment calendar in a folder, in a book, in a bookshelf, where _anyone_ could come along and take it.

He helps himself to the trench code sheet helpfully left on the top of the desk, and takes a nice pencil for good measure before refreshing his stealth boy with five seconds to spare. Two of four.

Everything else on the desk looks harmless at best or useless at worst. Weather charts. A map of the southern coastline as far as can be reached before getting into the hot zone at the eastern reach of the Glowing Sea. A list of numbers and measures that, on second look, turns out to be a record of fish caught. An invoice from the trader’s watering hole at the far edge of town reminding him that his tab is overdue.

“Come on,” pants Church, loud as anything. “Right-- _fuck_ , there, right there. Jesus, sweetheart…”

Deacon feels the red start to crawl over his cheeks as the slap of skin against skin gets louder. Okay. Okay okay okay. He has what he needs. He's definitely not going to take a cautious step towards the hallway, and another, and another, until he can look around the corner of the door. He is absolutely not going to be that much of a rank amateur idiot.

“Fuck,” says Sturges reverently. “Look at that. Your pussy can't get enough.”

Or, maybe, he _will_ be that much of a rank amateur idiot. He'll take a peek. For old times sake, right? He times his footsteps to the sound of a throaty grunt and the protesting squeak of a brahmin hair mattress under pressure.

Geeze. He forgot how big Sturges is. Shoulders as wide as axe handles, a middle as thick as a barrel. And that's just the PG features Deacon can talk about in a family friendly time slot. He's got fond memories of that junk, for sure. For _sure_. A sturdy dick thick enough to knock the air outta him while getting his ass rawed over a workbench, balls heavy enough that even his big mouth can't master both of ‘em. Deacon rates Sturges’ entire zone very highly. 10/10, five stars, definitely worth the long trip needed to take a ride.

The big fella is sitting back on his heels, knees wide, one inked shoulder rolling as he jerks off Church laid out in front of him like a leathery entree. Frankly all he can see of him is a pair of feet flexing as Sturges works his dick, one palm clutching at the sheets as he exhales a long groan and pleads - pleads! The ice cube pleads! - to get fucked.

“Greedy,” says Sturges pleasantly, and wipes his palm on the cotton sheet. “My slutty baby. Keep talking like that and a man might think you're only into him for his dick.”

Deacon nods despite himself. No harm in acknowledging his own personal truth. Look, honestly? It's a really good dick. In the past eight months he's repeatedly had a whale of a time on it, against it, under it and over it. If Sturges is going to offer one of Deacon’s alter egos an open invitation to visit the Red Rocket any time for cake, coffee and cum, then who is he to refuse such a polite offer?

“C’mere you tart,” says Sturges, and sprawls forward to give his boyfriend a noisy kiss. Deacon - invisible, unknown - fights the urge to make a frankly embarrassing noise at the sight of it. God, it's so… it's so intimate. This is way, way too intimate to be watching. This is a level of voyeurism that anyone of upstanding character would be unwilling to stand around and watch.

He activates his third stealth boy, covering the hiss of it powering up under the noise of Sturges groaning loud and satisfied.

Jesus, they're just so… so _there_. Close enough to touch if he was a real goddamn idiot. The whole room - the whole house - reeks like they've been at it for hours, the air thick with old sweat and stale cum and the dense scent of carrot flower oil. He doesn't know what to gawp at first: the bright flash of steel at the end of Sturges’ thick cock or the glimpse of Church's loose hole shiny with oil, or the way Church slaps the mattress with an open palm as he barks with laughter as Sturges nuzzles his neck and says _c’mon, hurry up, fuck me before I get old_.

“Don't you go being all impolite,” says Sturges, blindly pushing forward until the fat head of his dick notches into Church's asshole, swallowing the thick steel ring from view. “Be nice to me or I'm gonna find some other pretty pussy to breed.”

“Fuck,” wheezes Church as he takes Sturges’ cock in one stroke, right as Deacon silently mouths _fuck_ to himself. “Give it to me. Please.”

“You know I've been saving loads for you,” Sturges says, and squeezes Church’s ankle in a gesture that seems oddly gentle and out of place. “Got so much cum for that greedy little pussy.” He gets his knees under him to really fuck him deep with meaty slaps of skin against skin. “Gonna breed you so full you're gonna look pregnant, baby. Just like you like."

 _Hgnugh_ says Church, any words he might've been about to say lost as Sturges adjusts his angle with a well-practiced grind of his hips. He blindly gropes at Sturges’ ass, encourages him to fuck him faster. “Don't stop, don't stop, don't--.”

“Gonna ruin that loose hole, baby.” Sturges sounds out of breath. “You're gonna walk out of here so full - sweetheart, yeah, roll your hips up for me - everyone’s gonna know I knocked you up. Everyone's gonna know you took all my loads deep in your hungry lil' cunt.”

“Fuck _me_ ,” gasps Church, and Deacon can hear the hitch in his voice. Fella already sounds so close to blowing his wad; he's got the wheeze of two packs a day rattling in his lungs as he digs one heel into the mattress and arches himself up to get fucked as hard as possible, as deep as possible.

“You'd better not spill a drop,” says Sturges, right into Church's ear as he drives into him so hard he slides up across the mattress. “My pretty baby won't waste a drop it until she's knocked up, right?”

Church makes a reedy high noise that turns into a panted chorus of _yes_ and _please_ and _I_ _promise_ and--

Okay. Okay, okay. _Okay_. Deacon takes a silent step back across the hallway, and backtracks across the empty room to the sound of a miserable asshole getting fucked so hard that he can't even speak, every word knocked loose from its mooring as his boyfriend groans out a litany of  _I'm gonna put a baby in you I'm gonna breed you so fuckin’ hard you're going to be ruined for anyone else I'm gonna fuck you pregnant you're gonna be a mess when I'm done with you you're gonna leak cum outta that little pussy for weeks baby I'm--_

Deacon’s face feels like it's a tinder spark away from catching on fire.

The papers go out the window first, then the pencil, then Deacon. If he hits his elbow on the window frame he can't even tell, ‘cause frankly everything is just a little distracting at the moment. At least 40% of his brain is hardlocked on the fact he knows the sounds Church makes when he comes, and what he's hearing is, like, so way, way, _way_ beyond that. Maybe he's a little jealous? Maybe. Purely professionally, of course. Always seeking personal improvement, etcetera and so forth.

He slides the window home right as the stealth boy fades out. He crouches by the window, getting his breath back as he scoops up his stolen papers, one ear tuned to the muffled sound of Sturges saying _you can go again, pretty girl, I know there's another one in you, you don't get this until you--_

Okay. Ooookay.

He doesn't even know how he's going to write a report on this one. He gives the sleepy dog a cordial nod and sidles out of the yard, taking the steep ground down to the creek with careful steps, ready to take the long way out of town and reconvene with a runner to get his precious pilfered goods back to HQ for analysis by PAM.

Maybe… maybe it'll just be easier to say that he bought the information from a credible source? Maybe. Maybe that's 10,000% less likely to make him flush like a teenager when giving his report to Des.

Deacon has done some colossally stupid things in his time, but this might be way, way, _way_ up on the list. Top five easily. Top three if he narrows it down to professional engagements only, but hoooboy. Talk about a payoff.

**Author's Note:**

> Sturges is a unit with a mouth like a toilet and I, for one, support him.


End file.
